#shattered flames; burning crystals

[achromaticsremixture]

shattered flames

every step breaks the prewritten narrative of your story for me and with every crack, i spiral, further and further into lucifer’s domain, away from your seraphic mansion the angels say, you don’t belong, freak and i believe, that i,  am no longer human. 

encased in the ice of time is me to change and to grow; to be human is what you do  frozen as i am, can you call me a true member of this rat race?  defined by my past; imprisoned by my future so tell me, honestly,  am i qualified for humanity? 

flames lick at the heels of my shoes and iridescent flickers eat away at the glass that forms, at the glass that flies away, at the simplest touch, and  transfixed, at the sight, i  am amazed? 

crystallisation is a beautiful sight, and  i appreciate every single part of it and your words form memories, of times long lost, and  i can’t help but let tears fall

and all at once, the flames turn to glass blue and pink swirling idly in a mosaic of laughter wind chimes ringing over wood smelling of cedar phrases fly by, and quotes that hold value shape me, and for once, i feel that i  deserve to be human. 

[ornii]

Arcane, Chapter 4: Things have changed, you? No..

The endless darkness had been inviting for so long, but finally there is a chance to return.

Sitting on a floating island upon the endless cosmos, (Y/n) was still alive, years had passed, he had grown. Mastering the crystal that exploded and had infused his body with this unstable power.

Standing at the edge of the island, covered in rags and robes, he extended his metal arm, sigils etched into the rusted metal hummed blue energy and began to shake, evoking what power his body had, the fabric of the world itself began to warp at a disturbing rate. It was trying to tear itself back to the real world, but no avail. The blue light fizzled and he slumped down exhausted, he punched the ground out of more frustration itself, and escape so far away, until the darkness begin to crackle with blue electricity, a large amount of energy was being used, somewhere. It didn’t matter, it was time.

(Y/n) stood up and put his hand in the air, he begins to use said energy, opening his arm up like a lighting rod, as the electricity stuck his arm, his eyes begin to shift to a soaring bright blue, power surged further and further until his arm was shaking, barely containing the energy like a bottle about to burst, with one movement, he then threw his hand forward, the force made a shockwave of energy so intense it made a small but visible tear, into a laboratory. it didn’t matter where, just not here.. (Y/n) leapt into it without hesitation, his body felt the rush of light, pressure and heat, and swiftly landed on the ground of a cool laboratory.

Placing his feet on the cold floor (Y/n) looked around, his eyes dimly lit by the light, he saw two men, stunned by his arrival, it’s obvious he’s still in Piltover. If he’s back, then he only has one goal, find powder and Vi, turning to the large glass window he extended his arm and the energy began to gather once more, with a single snap of his finger, he blasted another shockwave of blue energy hits the glass and shattered it, he leapt out of the window, regardless of how far the fall is, and it was far, as he fell he slammed his hand into the wall and began to slow his descent scarring the tower he slowed down and leapt into the waters, taking him away to hide in piltover.

Gasping for air, he washes up near the sewer pipe leading down to piltover, before he can be swept up he gripped the platform above and pulled himself up next to the pipe, and rested, seeing the blue sky, vibrant colors, finally. Leaning against the pipe, he fell asleep for hours. His eyes open to the smell of smoke, something was burning, his eyes dart upwards to the smoke rising further in Piltover. He rushed to the location, flames consume a tent, blazing. His eyes quickly shifted to the drawing made of the fire into the tent, it was a monkey, just like.. Powders.

“Is… is that?” He stepped closer, deep rooted memories began to replay, fear, anger and frustration all began to flow once more, but the coughing of a woman caught him off guard. He peered in and saw her, on the ground, flames around her. With little hesitation he ran in, he saw a wooden beam had fallen upon her chest, He gripped the beam with his arm and hurled it off and put the woman on his shoulders and ran with her out of the fire. Lying her on the ground he looked her up and down, besides the smoke and slight burns, she’ll be fine. She was dressed as an officer, Footsteps storm near his direction and he can assume the others are here. (Y/n) ran off, leaving the woman to be tended by the officers.

That woman, was Caitlyn, Lady of House Kiramman. The next morning came and She was knelling down. looking at a board of plans, all sticking together to a singular goal -a goal she just hasn’t been able to piece together, twirling a pistol she overlooks them, and hears a shuffling behind her.

“I said leave me, Jayce.” She sounded upset, and when the figure didn’t reply, she quickly turned around and aimed her gun, it was (Y/n), reading the note from the large bouquet of flowers. “To Lady Kiramman.” He said, and turned his hooded face to her.

“Who are you? How did you get it?” She demanded to know, (Y/n) calmly turned to face her, “Your windows, and could you please put you gun down? If I wanted you dead I would have let you die in that tent.” He said, and Cait was caught off guard.

“It was.. you.” She huffed, (Y/n) nodded. “Yes, you were investigating it, I want to help.”

“And why should I believe that?”

“Saving your life wasn’t enough?” He replied, and sighed, “The man you’re looking for is part of Silco’s gang. Probably using the explosives someone I know…” he said, and it began to piece together.

“I've suspected there is a single mind

behind the undercity's violence…I think whoever attacked the square

is our suspect.” Cait lowered her gun and showed him the display she had, all plans link together.

“The same symbols showed up at the botched smuggling operation at the Hexgates.”

“The Hexgates?” He had no idea what that was.

“Keep up.” She points to the maps dark end.

“All this time, they've kept their dealings

localized to the undercity. Low priority. The attack on the square changes things. They've overstepped. If I can figure who made the explosives, it could lead me directly to whoever's behind it all. The answer is here, staring me in the face.” Cat droned on, and (Y/n) smugly folds his arms.

“I guess that would be me..” (Y/n) walked over, and knelt down to look at the map. “It’s been a while since I was there, but I can remember a few faces.. especially ones that work with Silco, if what you’re saying is true.. we find the guy, and.. “chat” with him.

(Y/n) made the offer and extended his metal arm. “(Y/n)” he said, Cait reluctantly shook the cool metal hand.

“..Caitlyn, and fine, but you are going dressed like that, and you reek.”

“I haven’t taken a decent shower in years..” he said, Cait folds her arms as well. “Then you’re going to, and get a new assortment of clothes, my father could spare some, you look to fit the size. Cait took his hood off and she got a good look at his face, half of it had a scar along from the eyebrow down to his lip. His eye now glistening like a crystal is behind it. Cait was quickly surprised and stepped back. “I’m sorry I didn’t—“

“Don’t worry about it, where your shower or whatever.” He put his hood back on, Cait lead him to it, without her parents knowing of course.

Now dressed in a more casually style, ankle high boots, thick leather leggings and a button up navy blue shirt and vest combo, he tops it off with a black tie and overcoat, taking a single glove he puts it on his metal arm to avoid suspicion. Cait peers into the room.

“Done? We have to go..” she saw him in the moonlight, the way his eyes shine so beautifully, he nods, “yeah.. let’s go.”

Standing before the warden, (Y/n) kept his hood on and allowed Cait to speak.

“I need to speak with one of the inmates.” She said, the Warden at the desk looked them up and down, raising an eyebrow.

“Oh, folks in here aren't usually very talkative…” he said, scribbling on his paper

“This one was hit by friendly fire. He's got reason to talk. Must have been sent in today?” She asked and he thought.

“Oh. Inmate 2135. Yeah, I'm, uh, afraid that's not possible.” He admits, (Y/n)’ jerked his head up to the Warden.

“Why not?” (Y/n) asked, the Warden looks at his papers, and taps on one.

“Uh, well, there's been...an incident.” He said, Cait and (Y/n) glance at each other and then back to him.

“What kind of incident?” Caitlyn asks.

“The...not so pretty kind.”

“You don't understand, we have to talk to him.” Caitlyn attempts to use some form of reason with the warden, whose hands were tied.

“Oh, you'll be able to. As soon as he can move his jaw again.” He replied, and (Y/n) thought, “this guy… he just got to the prison, couldn’t have made any enemies, so who did it must have known…” (Y/n) grasped what his brain was trying to relay.. whoever attacked the man must have known who he already was.. one of Silco’s men.”

“Who assaulted him?” (Y/n) asked. And the Warden could oblige with that.

The Duo entered the cell block and calmly but carefully walked down the hall to the Cell of the assailant. Loud thuds echo down the hall, sounds like someone’s taking their frustrations out on someone, or something. The pounding grew closer and closer, until the final cell door it was beating with force. (Y/n) and Caitlyn reached the cell block, and the pink hair in the dim room said enough to who it is. (Y/n)’s eyes couldn’t believe it and leaned forward his face reaching the cell bars. Vi turned around, and looked at them both.

“…Who the hell are you?”

[thegnomelord]

PLEASEEEEE UR IDEA WITH MAGE M!READER AND MONSTER!COD MEN I'D LOVE THAT SO FICKING MUCH AND YES I AGREE THERE IS A LACK OF ALL THE VIOLENCE

Pov of how the world sees the reader Vs how TF141 reader :D. I'm in the middle of writing the first chapter of a fic with this idea, but guess who contracted TB like some coal miner 😞, me! So here's a sneak peak for the sort of vibe I'm going for while I'm trying to recover:

P.S: Ya'll are free to suggest/requests with this idea cause!

P.S.S: Check out bluegiragi who came up with this AU and give her some love!

Mages and Monsters

Mages are strange creatures.

In a world so full of monstrous hybrids and mythical creatures, mages sit on the proverbial line separating man from monster, stuck in both worlds without any hope of fitting in either one.

Because outwardly, they're average. No different from the billions of other humans. They're not born with the marks of monsterdom; they don't possess horns or leathery scales to shrug off small caliber bullets like dragons do, nor the claws and bone crushing jaws of werewolves, not feathered wings and razor sharp talons of harpies, nor the wraiths ghostly ability to become immaterial.

Outwardly, they're average. Ordinary. Mundane. Human...

Almost.

Because Price and Ghost are experienced enough to see the thing laying beneath the paper thin veneer of normality, are seasoned enough to quickly notice the one thing that puts an 'in' before a mage's 'human' description — Magic. Not the smoke and mirror kind magicians or charlatans use to swindle tourists out of money, but real magic.

The ancient kind, the capricious kind, slumbering like a beast inside the hollowed out cavern of a heart until it awakens with a terrible bloodlust. Each of them can attest to this; Price sports gnarled patched of scar tissue on the scaleless parts of his arm from ice burns, his draconic breath having saved him from frostbite that had devoured more than a few good men. Though Ghost doesn't show much skin, one can sometimes catch sight of branching fern patterns on his neck where lightning magic had shot through him. Gaz's back is peppered with hundreds of little cuts where a glass mage's summoned elegant ornaments had shattered into millions of shards, aiming to take out his wings.

And now Soap sports a mark of his own, his side tender red and blistered with a second degree burn. It could have been much worse, your flames were hot enough to melt steel, the only thing having kept him from an early cremation being the two solid concrete walls your magic had had to travel through to hit him and the enhanced regeneration of his thick hide.

But such power demands a cost — one paid in blood. For magic is as fickle and capricious as a rabid dog, just as eager to lunge for your throat as it will at the enemies, leaving lasting wounds for all to see; rough and calloused palms, skin blackened from blazing heat and freezing cold or marked with fern patterns of electricity, fingers stiff and marred with cuts from thorns and crystals and rock and glass, bone deep cuts where the liquid mana had burst out from the skin, leaving faintly glowing scars that never heal right.

All mages are born with this grievous gift, though one never knows whether it will present itself with a pitiful flicker of embers in a man's dying breath, or with a maelstrom of an infant's first hiccup. That's why most mages are sealed, by choice or force, a process which puts chains on the magic, making it and the mage docile.

But you are unsealed. And you flaunt that fact readily by melting the tail of their APC helicopter with one spell, not even waiting for them to crash before flooding the terrain with suffocating ash, the lenses of their gas masks already fogging up from the heat as they get out of the cloud of heavy sediment before it bursts to flames.

Sometimes the magic becomes unsatisfied with the weakness of the body, demanding more than just its pound of flesh and molding the body like clay to better suit it— Mage Marks, they're called — the subtle glow of magic in your eyes, the mana visibly pulsing inside your chest, the skin of your arms slipping away like wet paper before growing anew, this time mimicking the surface of magma, or the rocky barnacle encrusted reef, the gnarled bark of a tree, the crystalline inside of a geode, the ice spiked ground of tundra, or any other form that suits the magic in your veins.

The process is excruciating, the mana burrowing and gnawing on every nerve like a parasite that replaces what it eats with itself. But to you, that's an acceptable loss, because marked mages far surpass their unmarked fellows, your magic stronger and wilder, feral and viscous like the primordial force of nature.

So it becomes concerning when you're laying on the floor, captured, battered and bruised and calm.

Ghost had been waterboarding you for a while now, your body tied to a chair that had been tipped back so you were parallel with the ground. With water pooling around your head, your top half would have been soaked to the bone had your magic not been simmering in your veins, the magic suppression momentarily reducing the raging inferno in your chest to a meager flicker of flames.

They can't kill you, but limiting your magic for even a second is death in and of itself.

Your breathing is harsh as Ghost pulls away the cloth over your mouth, asking you a question as steam rises from your skin. Most would give in long before this point, but you just grin, eyes glowing with a burning glow, and make a comment about how good his arse looks from your viewpoint.

You manage only one small note of laughter, pitiful embers sparking at the corners of your lip, before Ghost drops the rag back over your face and begins anew.

Price watches all of this, sharp draconic eyes noting how the mana glows in your chest, pulsing like a second heart (assuming you had one to begin with), noticing how the water turns to steam a little faster when it splashes over your skin.

And Price knows.

You... You are going to be trouble.

[dmitriene]

cw: angst, emotional hurt, smut, may be a bit of comfort, complicated relationship, cunnilingus, breast play, simon have real struggles, a lot of complicated love, confessions, both rude and soft behavior from simon. pairing: simon ghost riley x fem reader

ㅤㅤㅤ“i know that you're shitty and you're bad for me„ ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ“but i can't stop thinking 'bout it„

simon is not your best option, a man far from ideal, to whom you are drawn like a butterfly — simon ghost riley is a man shrouded in darkness so impenetrable that it poisons, and you, poor butterfly, found yourself drowning there.

it's difficult with simon, he keeps his distance, lurks in the shadows that are behind you, at your distance, but at the same time, he's afraid to allow himself too much.

he never writes a message, never says if he's going to leave the next day for a month long deployment, never lets his thin lips curl to exhale a declaration of love, even if yours — “love you, love you simon„ are ringing constantly in his ears in the form of melodious, breathy chants.

but fuck, he comes back like a mutt, dirty mutt, because he knows that he stains you and everytime ruins you from deep inside and for everyone else, but he can't stop.

and you don't let him.

you let him in again and again, when he's on your doorstep, early in the morning or late at night, even if you're not feeling your best, even if you're busy — you're going to drop everything, you're going to come to him and into his hands, in the hands of the ghost.

but his touch is warm, not ghostly, not penetratingly icy to the very bones — they are tender, warm as he outlines your thin skin, which is covered with goosebumps under the hard, calloused pads of his fingers, descending from your rounded, supple breasts, squeezing, playing with your small, peaky hard nipples.

down, and down, leaving behind tongues of flame that lick around your body, wrapping you in a burningly hot lump that leaves you dizzy, your own hands reaching out in response to touch him back, strip him to the bone — and he grabs your hands, a grip almost capable of bruising your wrists as he presses them into the sheets and smooths them out, growling on a protective level — “keep 'em here, bird"

it's hurts, burns you with both pain and pleasure — eyes welling with clear, crystal tears that ready to shatter, but they still on your lash line when those thick, warm palms slide further down your frail body, tracing the curve of your waist, thick fingers outline the bones of your hips and squeeze, watching the flesh turn pink under his grasp before he trickles down with gentle tickle, just until he curls his hands around your plush thighs.

thighs that will shake when he would part your slick, puffy folds on his fat tongue, licking you and suckling on your throbbing, bulging clit with ferocity, before his tongue will delve deeper, open your clenching, hot and weeping tight hole for him to taste, to drink — your throaty mewls, your sweet juices, your body language.

all of that just so he would disappear when morning sun even didn't have the time to come from under the horizon, you don't know for how long, you don't know if he'll be back this time — all that's left of simon is the scarlet buds on your skin, marking you from neck to toe, and the slowly disappearing warmth on the sheets next to you where he slept earlier.

he always return into shadows, and you always go back after him if he doesn't go back himself, that's what you are, you're his butterfly, he's your trap, but you can't stay away.

not when he does come back after weeks, month even, just so you would call him so sweetly, so familiarly, there's nothing he gives you except of his dirty, bloodied self, but you open your arms for him and chirp, just for him, for simon — “welcome back, si„

not ghost, with you — he can't be this dead version of him.

✎ 𝘮𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘮𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵. 𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘴. 𝘢𝘰3.

[from-the-coffee-shop-in-edoras]

🥀 Unwary 🥀

After working on and off for MONTHS and staring at it a long time, here’s the Théodwyn story many of you have heard me agonizing over. I can’t look at it anymore, so we’re just hitting “post”!

It’s called Unwary, which is one of the few words Tolkien gives us to describe Théodwyn’s husband Éomund. He was a “hater of orcs” who often rode against them “in hot anger, unwarily and with few men.” That got him killed and, shortly thereafter, Théodwyn herself died of an illness. This story is my attempt to tie all that together.

Note that Théodwyn’s 3 (canonical but nameless) sisters are here; they came to help after Éomund’s death. You’ll see I gave 2 of them Gondorian names; more explanation of that at the bottom if you’re interested.

There is a fire inside Théodwyn that will not be doused.

It has smoldered for years, just waiting for the breath of air that would coax its glowing embers to life and send a wave of flame racing through her as though she were made not of bone and blood but of kindling and fuel. Now lit by Éomund’s inevitable death, the fire burns bigger and hotter each new day that dawns without him, and it laps at her heart, singeing and charring until there is nothing left but heat. Gone is anything soft and pliant, anything tender or understanding, replaced instead by blistering fury.

She stalks the plains outside of Aldburg in the dark, crunching heavily over glittering, frost encrusted grass. She is trying to outrun that fury, though a fortnight of this new nightly ritual has achieved no such thing so far. But if she cannot leave her anger behind, maybe she can still exhaust it, tire it enough that it can be wrestled into submission and leave her in peace. Deep down, she suspects the effort is in vain, but she has no better plan. She is bereft of ideas, just as she is now bereft of laughter and sympathy and hope. Her husband is just one of many things suddenly missing from her life, and he is not the one she most wants back.

Sweat soaks into both her dress and cloak, and large red blooms form on her cheeks. Each gale of frigid wind catches the dampness at the small of her back or along her hairline beneath her hood, and sends a wave of wracking chills across her heated skin. But her pace never falters despite the passing of long hours and long miles. Over the sound of her boots grinding delicate ice into so many shattered crystals, she mutters her mantra again and again, hissing out the words in time with the rhythm of her steps.

I knew this would happen. I knew this would happen. I knew this would happen.

The night is her time to let this anger out, far away from Éomer and Éowyn, both much too young to be burdened with the knowledge that their dead father was a reckless fool. Someone who couldn’t control his own impetuous need to act and, worse, refused to accept a cautioning hand even from one he professed to honor and cherish. She had begged him not to go, to delay for even a single hour until more men could be gathered to join his small party of riders. But he had been blind, as ever, to anything but his own rash impulses and instincts. He had scoffed at her fears, swept aside her concerns, given bold assurances that weren’t in his power to make. And now he was being hailed as a fallen hero while she was left alone with the consequences of his folly, to manage a tragic loss that she knew to be entirely of his own making.

She hadn’t always felt this way about him. There was a time when she found his passion and spontaneity exciting. Stirring. Romantic. To be the object of his attentions, to be the desire that he would overturn the world to sate, was a special brand of intoxicant, and she drank it in willingly. His quickness to action and his unfailing courage set him apart from other men, and he gained much by risking more than others could stomach. She felt his every gain as her own, and they ran heedless together through the world, two free souls as yet unchecked by the realities of life.

But what felt brave and thrilling and decisive when they were twenty had begun to look much different on the doorstep of forty, when he had already gained more than most men could dream of and only stood now to lose what had been so daringly won. Slowly, creepingly, she began to see his whims as childish, his zealotry as self indulgent. It surprised her every bit as much as him, but somewhere along the way, with age and responsibility and perspective, she became the person who would check him as life never had. The person to ask questions, to say no, to thwart his boldest ambitions and disappoint his most absurd hopes.

Whenever she did, he would look at her as though he looked upon a stranger, an unrecognizable drudge that had stolen the body of his daring and passionate wife. He would look at her as though she had broken faith with him, betraying their bond by choosing to accept that they lived in a world of constraints and limitations. And then she would hate herself, and him, too.

A dull, thudding pain hammers away in the space right behind her eyes, and her muscles and joints ache with every wearied step, calling out for rest. To sit or lay quietly for a while might ease the strain that has increasingly weighed on her body these last few days, the strain of too little sleep, too little food, too little protection from the harsh bite of winter. But she no longer cares for physical ease or comfort. She can endure without them; it has always been the way of the Rohirrim to bear such things without complaint. What she cannot bear is the seething in her mind during moments of stillness, those times of lonely silence while others sleep and she can only gnaw on the bones of her grievances and look with contempt at her memories now tainted by abandonment. And so she stomps through the cold desolation instead, the frozen cloud of her breath drifting along in the wake of a body indulging in the only escape available.

She knows she should be at home in case her children need her, and she knows that her sisters disapprove of how she has been acting. You’ll catch your death out there, says Edlenniel each night as she walks out the door. You need to start taking better care of yourself, clucks Théopryte, a critical eye cast over her increasingly bony figure, her unkempt hair. And this, too, makes her angry, the insistence of her elder sisters on treating her as though she is still a child even now. Nothing she does is ever good enough in their eyes – her home is too untidy, her language too profane, her daughter too much at liberty to run wild rather than learning the ways of respectable girlhood. And now she cannot even grieve correctly.

In truth, she had not expected to mourn this way. The day Éomund rode off, she had imagined her own reaction to the eventual return of his meager company without him. Sorrow, longing, despair, regret – these had been anticipated despite her frustrations. But when Éothain knocked at her door with the news, watery eyes rimmed with red and a battered horse-tailed helmet in hand, she felt none of those things. They vanished in an instant, disappeared from her heart and mind, perhaps never to return. Instead, she became like the cicadas that come to Rohan every dozen years and litter the ground with their delicate molted shells, perfectly formed images of themselves that have been deserted, no longer fit for use and liable to shatter under the slightest of pressures.

Now every interaction, every well-meaning friend or suffering relative, is at risk of being the next target of the dull blade of her anger, always at the ready to hack and slice ineffectually at those who draw her attention and, thus, her scorn. The neighbors who look at her pityingly as they pass by. The men of Éomund’s company who expect her to join them in their grief. Even her sweet son, all knobby knees and gangly elbows, works an inflamed nerve as he swings a sword much too big for him, vowing to protect their house now in his father’s absence. It’s a mother’s job to protect her child, not the other way around, she says to the thin frame and slight shoulders that are not yet grown enough to bear his own charge. You have years left just to be a boy, safe under my care. But it is said through gritted teeth, her tone emotionless, and he doesn’t believe her.

She has enough awareness still to see what she’s become, and though she cannot change it, she knows to try to hide it. She labors each day to be the mother her children need, sitting with them as they cry and holding her tongue when they paint Éomund in their remembrances as a valiant hero, a man to rival all the greatest legends of song. But they know that something isn’t right within her; some voice inside their childlike minds warns them of peril in the one place where they were trained never to expect it. Éomer has stopped asking why she doesn’t cry, and Éowyn now clearly prefers to seek her comfort from Tadiel, whose soft arms, doughy middle and doting indulgence provide what Théodwyn’s sharp, angular body and brittle bearing simply can’t or won’t.

As it inches toward sunrise, she reluctantly turns toward home again, where soon the rest of the household will begin to stir and her absence will be noted, frowned about and tsked over. The judgment of her sisters is no real concern, but she doesn’t want to add to the worries of her children. For them, she will fight to maintain even the barest pretense of normalcy. For her children, she will sit in that house among the remains of Éomund’s life – his belongings, his clothes, his scent – and she will struggle to breathe through the poisonous resentment that is trapped in her throat because she cannot allow it to pass her lips. For her children, she will choke.

The gate comes into view and, beyond it, the garden that she once loved and nurtured into glory, now gone dormant for the winter. She stumbles on the rise to the path, and a knee drives into the frozen ground. She rights herself with difficulty, grunting in the effort, and she curses at this clumsiness. Weakness of body has never been a challenge of hers, and she cannot understand the heavy, dragging feeling that follows her to the door. For the first time, she considers whether everything – the throbbing head, the sweating skin, the screaming joints – is not just a product of exertion but something more serious. Something brought on by the refusal to rest, to eat, to stay warm, to accept comfort and support. It is an unsettling thought, and she tries to push it from her mind as she slips quietly inside.

The frozen sting in her fingertips and toes is a strange counterpoint to the burning heat of her forehead and cheeks, and she collapses into a chair by the fire, waiting out the gradual thaw of her frost-dulled limbs and the eventual return of her body to how it is supposed to feel. But though her fingers slowly lose their bluish tinge and sensation tentatively returns to her feet, the heat in her face and the exhaustion in her muscles only grow. Time ticks by, innumerable minutes that seem like hours, and she can feel it all continue to worsen. What little energy she had now spills from her body like the blood of the stags that Éomund used to hunt, their carcasses sliced open and left to drain. A shiver runs through her, once and then again and again and again, every time stronger until the shivers are full-body spasms that clack her teeth together, threatening to catch her tongue in each jolt. A low, groaning noise fills the room, and she discovers with surprise that it is coming from her own throat.

Good gods, Théodwyn. What have you done to yourself? Edlenniel is in the doorway, and the horrified alarm in her voice is enough to smother the instinct to snap in response. What has she done? She tries to stand, but her legs don’t respond. A strange distance has crept in and inserted itself between the intentions of her mind and the obedience of her body. She wills herself up again and lurches forward with great effort. Is she standing now? She cannot be, not with the cool, smooth stone of the floor somehow pressed to her flushed cheek. She would lift her head to check, but the exhaustion is so heavy that it pins her down, the turning of a screw that secures her, motionless, to wherever she has landed.

Her mind becomes slow and hazy, her sight flickering in and out as though she is passing quickly between rooms that are brightly lit and others that are in total darkness. Théopryte is there and then not. Calls for help are relayed down the hall, and more people rush in. Tadiel pulls Éomer from the doorway, a hand over his eyes as though the sight of his mother is too frightful for him even to look upon. Clamoring, urgent voices echo around inside Théodwyn’s head until they are no longer intelligible to her, just a whirling churn of volumes and tones. She floats, alone and disconnected, in a sea of others’ panic.

A man’s face appears in her field of vision, lifting her up and carrying her to a nearby couch. Théodred? It comes out as a hoarse whisper, and the face shakes its head. No, of course not. Her beloved nephew doesn’t live in Aldburg and never has. A neighbor, then? Or servant? She loses interest before she can unravel the mystery, distracted by a painful new sensation that prickles across the surface of her skin like a thousand small needles. She squeezes her eyes shut, trying to exhale the pain with her every labored breath.

Uncounted hours pass, and she is now in her own bed, though she cannot recall being brought there. It takes all her effort just to keep her eyes open, and each time she blinks, it feels like scraping her eyelids over sand. She drifts in and out of lucidity, bobbing in a current of confused thought like a small boat tied up at the edge of a running river. When she’s lost, she is certain she can see Éomund in the corner, watching her in grave silence. When she’s present, she hears bits and snatches of hushed conversation, all in the voices of her sisters. The healer says there is nothing more to be done, says one. Such an awful waste, sniffles another. I knew this would happen, sighs the third. But who could stop her from running herself into the ground this way? She’s always done just what she wanted, no matter how rash or irresponsible.

Amidst all her pains, these words hit her like a blow, and an immediate, convulsive heaving in her stomach has others running for the healer again to manage this fresh symptom of her malady. But she knows it for what it really is: the retching out of unwelcome truth, her body’s rejection of this simple distillation of her fate. Recovery is not coming. She will die here in this bed, and her death will be needless. Pointless. And all the more shameful because she should have known better. She could have heeded the cautions and warnings of others.

Edlenniel leans her over a bowl as she empties herself of what little she’s eaten in the last day, and the bitter taste in her mouth lingers even after she has swirled and spat out many mouthfuls of water. It lingers as she collapses back into the sweat-soaked sheets that cling to every inch of exposed skin. It lingers as her addled mind struggles to reckon with the weight and cost of her mistake, this tragedy of her own making. It will always linger, for all the minutes she has left in the world and for the eternity that stretches out into the boundless, unknown future beyond it.

Her head lolls weakly to one side, and she can see Éomund in the corner still watching, silent and attentive. His face is not impassive, but calm. He accepts what has happened, is happening, will happen, and she must accept it, too. He dissolves into a vague blur as hot tears begin to spill down her cheeks, and whether they are tears for him or for herself, she isn’t sure. When she blinks her eyes clear again, he has moved closer to the bedside. He smiles softly, the wistful look of one who knows what it is to carry the burden of self-blame past any hope of remedy, and he reaches toward her with an open hand. A hand of consolation and invitation.

She will take it, but not yet.

Bring the children, she rasps out.

There is a moment’s debate in the room, furious whispers that drift to her ears. Not something a child should witness, she hears. There may not be time to wait, is the response. She repeats her request, louder this time, and the debate intensifies, rising in pitch and strength. But before the argument can resolve itself, Éomer has pushed in from the hallway, towing little Éowyn by the hand. Her words have reached them on their own.

She struggles to bring her son and daughter into focus, just as they struggle to see the outlines of their strong, capable mother in this frail, spiritless form. She craves nothing more than rest, but she knows she cannot; if she rests now, she will not wake again. She takes each one by the hand, their skin cold and dry against her own clammy fingers and palms, and presses those hands to her lips.

Be good for your uncle, she tells them. Your cousin will love you as a brother.

Éomer, quicker to understand, begins to cry, and his tears trigger Éowyn’s. Soon all three are crying together, for both the first and last time.

You deserve better than this, she should say. I have failed you, she wants to say. But would it give them any comfort to know that she belatedly understands her own mistakes? That left to do it all again, she would guarantee that they would never be without their mother? What can she tell them now that will help and not hurt, that will be a gift and not a hindrance? She swallows hard, and it is like swallowing gravel. Your father and I did the best we could, she whispers. The two of you will do better, and we will be proud.

She drops back to the pillow, exhausted beyond measure, and someone bundles the children back out into the hall again. Éomund smiles at her, and she nods. Her eyes drift closed as his hand wraps around hers, and the burning in her heart and skin slowly fades, the fire extinguished at last.

A note on the sisters of Théoden: Their father, Thengel, ran away to Gondor as a young man and lived there for a huge chunk of his life. He married Morwen, a Gondorian woman, and Tolkien tells us he only went back to Rohan “unwillingly” to take up the throne after his own father died. 2 of his daughters and his son were born in Gondor before that happened, and my HC is that all 3 of them had Gondorian names because, at the time, Thengel never had any intention of ever going back. So that gives us Edlenniel (“daughter of the exile,” since that’s how he saw himself) and Tadiel (“second daughter,” so overshadowed by her siblings that Thengel couldn’t be bothered to even give her an interesting name).

Théoden himself had a Gondorian name as well (Arnhereg, “royal blood”) but he changed it to something Rohirric (Théoden means “leader of the people”) when the family went back to Rohan both because he wanted to fit in better and because it seemed only appropriate that the future king of Rohan have a Rohirric name. Then when the other two sisters were born in Rohan, they were given Rohirric names as well (Théopryte, “pride of the people,” who was extremely beautiful; and Théodwyn, “joy of the people,” who was full of spirit).

3 of the 4 sisters were dead by the time of the War of the Ring (Edlenniel from old age, Théopryte from an accident, and Théodwyn as described here), and Tadiel had gone back to Gondor. Edlenniel never had any children and Tadiel and Théopryte had only daughters, which is why we don’t hear anything about other cousins that might have competed with Éomer for the throne after Théodred’s death. I’ve made a backstory for each of the sisters, but no use putting that all here since I’ve already gone on too long!

(Dividers by the wonderful @quillofspirit !)

[wroteclassicaly]

Summary: Sometimes, you just gotta use Steve. And sometimes — he’s just gotta let you.

Warnings: Language, NSFW, PWP, vaginal sex, overall filth, etc.

A/N: Something I came up with last night because some of us are sluts for Steve’s tight little jeans, and the monster he’s got caged inside of them. ;) This has zero plot, and it’s just filth, but I’m proud of myself because when I was writing it, I felt like I was able to form sentences again (that I actually liked, lol). Hope y’all enjoy it too? And I am working on more stuff, plus the plus sized Eddie angst/comfort that I promised! ❤️💘❤️💘

The explosion of cinnamon amongst a molten, midnight black is impeccable — it’s delicious. He’s completely gone and you’re not sure what reality you’ve landed upon, your body not still or sound. If there’s control you aren’t exactly sure who has it (does anyone, really)? There’s a rumbling sound that’s dislodged from his diaphragm, his chest — thick with chestnut curls — expands on a jagged breath. Your back arches again, that undeniable shift helping you push your hips with all they’re worth, owning your movements.

“Oh, fuck. H-honey, I can’t —“

He cuts himself off, pearly white teeth sinking into the swollen skin of his stubble bitten, top lip. Your sclera is shrouded in tears, the crystal liquid overflowing, spilling down your lash-line. He almost has to check in with you, but as your fingers find your nipples and give them that extra stimulation — he ceases, his abdomen muscles crunching beneath the tremors. He’s about to speak and you beat him to it, bearing the tendons in your throat.

“Yeah… s’ fucking good. Love it.”

He has to drop his head to crest into focus, bowed between defined shoulder blades, his large hand reaching to cradle your cheek. He nearly blows his load right then and there, a wince crackling across his features like an electric shock. Your fingertips are the pulsing magnets, his body your dynamite to explode. His mouth feels chapped and dry, but he knows that it's his throat that’s raspy, brimmed with velvet arousal, stroking the flames that lick below his navel everytime you work your heat back onto his cock, using him.

And he tries another turn at coherency. “You love what, baby?”

You’re without pause, humming, feet planted into the mattress, toes curled into his baby blue bed sheets. Mingling scents of your soft perfume, his cologne, laundry detergent that littered the laundered sheets, and sex — it’s fanned with your possessive rhythm. Still, you sound more capable of speech — albeit — drenched in a honey wrapped heat, capable of destroying you both in the most aching burns. “Love having my cunt filled with your big cock, Steve.”

“That right?” It’s through clenched teeth that it separates itself free of his throat. His calloused thumb pad finds your cheekbone, pathing a way only he can ever know, one that slithers across your jaw and presses into the corner of your mouth, prying open your lips to hear you beg just a little more. “You know that you take it better than anyone else ever has, honey? Like you were made for it.”

Those words ignite your blazing inferno, your hips raising off the mattress and pushing, retracting into a rough bounce, an encouragement, a plea. Steve has never seen you like this before. A goddess amongst his broken knighthood (he needs to stop hanging around Eddie when the dude has Hellfire and goes all nerdy on him with metaphors), summoning his body for your sole pleasure, bringing him to the brink and shattering the release before he can even begin to sample a taste. Everything stings, prickling his tongue, locking his muscles into submission, his hair constantly swaying in his sweaty forehead and matting there, leaving him to blink rapidly. He isn’t sure what time it is, aware that he’s been bouncing you in a painstakingly, agonizing rhythm over his swollen cock, no one cumming, left to graze that high with fingertips.

Steve can barely take it anymore, his balls throbbing with unshed release, posture growing sloppy with choppy exhaustion. But damn it feels so fucking good, with his bones satiated and melting, fusing into his overworked muscles. And then you run your fingers through his chest hair, your digits stretching to splay across his jugular, arm elongating to assist. Steve wraps a limb around your back, using his forearm to propel you forward, your pussy taking him the rest of the way with a slick squelch, an immediate press of your milky white cream seeping out around where you’re joined, soaking him. His fingertips press into the meat of your back, tapping idly, squeezing.

“My dick is fucking soaked, honey. You’ve just been using me up for the last hour, huh?” His plush mouth finds the skin behind your ear, your breasts smashing into his chest and sticking.

He nibbles a little, alternating with that diabolical swipe of his tongue along the side of your neck, seizing your salty exertion — your body dusted in layers upon layers of it. It’s Steve who takes this movement, falling back onto his haunches and raising a bit to tighten his hold around your lower back, the other lacing your hands together and wiggling them between your thighs, making them part further, your limbs still wrapped around his waist, now draping over top his hips. He uses his nose to nudge your gaze, redirecting it to where he slides out enough for you to see his cock shining with a mess of you. “Look, honey. You see all this mess?”

If you weren’t totally in love with this man, you would’ve been flooded with shame. You’ve gotten yourself so fucking wet from simply riding him at a cruelly, leisurely pace, that your thick essence has patched itself around the public hair at the base of his shaft, slicking it back and bubbling away with a peeling squish — one that drizzles down and strings across his full balls. He can’t take it anymore, his hand sliding up your back and fisting into the back of your hair. You surrender, almost letting yourself get swept out to sea once more, but Steve brings you back into the moment. “Watch this with me, baby.”

Finding that overwhelming scene between your legs, Steve uses the strength in his hips to bounce you, your cream dripping onto his thigh, and — what’s at his base, sticking to your skin, the hair tickling your clit in ways that have your eyes rolling back. Everything inside of you shouts and tightens, taking hold and bolting you to him. He already feels it inside of your warmth, your walls fluttering, squeezing, pulling him impossibly deeper inside. “Fuck, I’m cumming, Steve. Baby, I can’t hold it, please —“

“Shh, shh. I know, honey. You’re a good girl, aren’t you?” He buzzes through a partial hiss, jaw agape as he feels it right on through with you. The pressure is almost too much, enough to knock him onto his ass.

You’re a whimpering, quivering heap of bones and flesh, body stuck so tightly to him that he’s holding you in his lap, fucking you on his cock as you take it now, Steve in charge of capturing the high. Another squelch in the quiet of the room, a warmth of arousal that’s accumulated below your ass, Steve’s palm shoving into yours, and his lips pry yours apart, tongue rudely licking its way into your mouth and you completely come undone, drenching him into his orgasm. If pulling out was on the table, the forsaken table is in shambles at the moment, Steve’s thick, hot release sinking into your insides, body welcoming him home.

By the time the prolonged highs end, Steve piles onto his back and takes you with him, silence blanketing the room as his hand finds the flesh of your tummy and massages. Aftercare will come soon, as your limits were damn near overpowered by your cock hungry need for your boyfriend and that monster he keeps in his pants. It makes you giggle as he smiles breathlessly, welcoming your cheek onto his hairy chest.

“Never seen you like that before,” he mumbles.

Your hair is a mess when you raise to answer. “It’s not my fault you wear those tight little jeans, Harrington.”

~*~

[unhappy-last-resort]

Zayne Angst Drabble

Fandom: Love & Deepspace

Warnings: Potential murder (of you), dissociation, implied suicide

A/N: @yandere-yearnings @sabotsen mwah love you♥ there is worse to come

Cold.

You know, he always thinks of summer when it comes to you. Bright colors, soft petals, and coarse grass are what weaved in between the atoms that held you together. Sweet fragrances and whispered dew that hid in the crooks of your neck as you stretched your fingers to the sky as if you could touch it—

Red.

Like a flame, like a fire burning in the hearth, bringing warmth to all in its presence. That was what you are. Warm and gentle, a place he can nestle his weary body and rest in your comfort and protection. Even if—

Ice.

Even if the cold tries to seep in, creeping through cracks and breaking the wood, he has you. His flame, his summer, his light, his love. He has you. He will wake up to you each time, after every nightmare, after every freeze and wrap yourself around him, let him drown in your fragrance until the last crystal shatters so he can gain the strength to leave you each morning, so he can pass your warmth on to the sick and dying.

Cold.

Summer has no cold and neither do his memories of you, all sparkling eyes, wide smiles, and giddy giggles. There is no cold in the flowers he tucked behind your ear. Did you know his favorite thing to do, was watch how the sun hit your iris'? Little ripples reflecting the brilliant hue of your eyes. Only the most precious gems in the universe were used to craft those eyes he loved so much. He was certain.

Stones gifted to him and him alone, crystals that shone only for him, only for him, only…

Only.

Only they don't glitter like they normally do, summer does not bloom beneath your skin, and memories do not warm like a hearth stoked full.

Only—

Cold.

Yes, there is only cold.

And the cold is from him. And the red paints his skin. And the ice burns his fingers.

There is remnants of summer on his tongue, broken petals dot the sheets you shared with him…

And you are cold.

And soon the ice will make him cold too.

Wait for me.

[slugterra-twisted-ends]

More fanon slugs to add to the roster!

Coramed (Earth Element): Healer slug that uses rubbing salts as both healing and attack

Flenus Trap (Plant Element): Captures opponents in its maw to drain them of their energy using its saliva

Shuriji (Metal Element): Shapes metal from its body into ninja throwing stars

Urfence (Earth Element): Uses its crystal like body to create large shields, with some very experienced Urfences creating towers and bastions

Coalech (Fire Element): Uses rocks and other loose materials to create a source for its fire to burn. It will then shoot out that flaming mass as an attack. Better the material, the greater the power

Startas (Air Element): When it morphs, it has a pincer. It can then click that pincer to make an ear shattering sound (based on the Mantis Shrimp!)

[beaniebitch01]

RANT!!!

*This will contain spoilers for Sonic Prime*

So I watched this show once before but held off writing my thoughts on it until I re-watched it cause on first watch I'm not really thinking of the show in a critical manner so it'd just be a disjointed string of random thoughts I had. It's also because any grievances I had may not have been fair when you consider the target audience this show was made for. So with that in mind I re-watched it and can now make a (hopefully) fair review of it.

I'm gonna start with what I thought was bad because considering it's a 3 season series I don't have a lot of complaints so I'll just get them out first.

1)The villains were dumb like what purpose does 5 eggmans serve besides obnoxious arguing. It would've been much more interesting if each world had its own version of eggman. Even the baby would've been a funny character if it was the sole villain for one of the worlds. 2)The fight scenes were repetitive. 3)Dialogue was actually painful sometimes, but this was made in an age where people for some reason think kids can't comprehend real conversations so they insert dumb quips. 4)*shudders*The Baby™. As sonic said in season two, "how can one baby be so hateable". Never in my life have I wanted to punch a character so bad. Every time it was on screen I felt a burning flame of hatred in my soul. 5)The ending, especially the last few episodes, went back and forth between Sonic trying to convince Nine to stop and the same fighting sequences and it got so annoying i thought about fast forwarding to the end. The stakes never felt high or low, they felt the same for all 7 episodes.

The good:

1)Shadow!!! He's in a show for more than a few episodes!!! Bro is always angry but honestly if I had to deal with sonics shenanigans I'd be perpetually annoyed too. 2)It was pretty well paced. Season one introduced all of the alternate worlds, season two had sonic switching between those worlds trying to get all of the crystals back and revealed a twist villain, season three was the fight against that villain and restoring the shatter space. 3)Considering the other shows we have, the animation wasn't bad, but could've been better. Especially when Netflix has come out with stuff like Arcane whose animation was incredible. 4)The plot was cohesive. 5)Good twist villain. Even though you can see it coming from the first episode of the first season, Nine still made for a good villain. 6)I was surprised to see actual character growth. Sonic's was inevitable since his carelessness got them into the situation they're in. Nine's character changed with each season, starting with being untrusting and guarded in the first, calming down in season two and actually caring about Sonic's wellbeing, feeling betrayed and angry in season three and then finally realizing he done goofed and Sonic was always his friend. 7)I really like that the one common thing from all worlds is the one palm tree. This feels like a weird thing to comment on but I just found it sweet for some reason.

Overall I really enjoyed the show and def recommend it.

[climbthemountain2020]

Flame of Autumn - Prologue

I am so excited to finally be posting this! Ch. 1/25

Find this also on Ao3

Biggest thanks to @thesistersarcheron and @azrielshadowssing for being my beta readers for this chapter forever ago! You're both wonderful!

[523 Years Ago] 

He was running, his heart pounding like a war drum in his chest and breath crystallizing in the cold air in front of him. The leaves blurred into a tunnel of reds and oranges around him, but he refused to stop. He was young, but he knew these woods like he knew his own mind. He could run for miles–for days–but he knew in the end it wouldn't matter. There wasn’t anywhere he could go where he would be safe. 

He stumbled through his sprinting steps, winnowing blindly a few hundred yards every so often. His lungs were burning, his knees felt close to shattering. He tried to push back against it, but his small body forced him to stop, the pain becoming overwhelming. He braced his hands on his knees while he willed his racing heart to calm. The tears on his face were turning cold as they dried, and the blood had become crisp on his tunic. He shifted uncomfortably at the ache across his ribs, feeling more blood eek out to drip down his side. He pushed his hand to it, wincing at the pain freely now that he was alone. 

The trees here were old—older than recorded history, at least—and the bark peeled off in thick, ragged strips in this perpetual autumn. Time-smoothed stones dotted the ground, covered in soft moss and occasionally interrupted by ancient tree roots the size of small horses. 

The boy pushed a crimson curl out of his eyes, flinching once more at the deep pain in his side. It was deeper than his healing capabilities would be able to fix, just like his father had intended. He’d have to bind it when he returned to the Forest House, but he wouldn’t hurry. He’d already gone too far, and his absence would be noticed. It was likely not the final wound he would receive today. 

He sagged to the ground at the base of one of the old trees, allowing himself to ease back into the curved base and forcing his body to relax. 

This is your fault. The thought was in his head, but it was the voice of his father that clanged around his skull. 

Failure. Wretch. Weak. He furiously wiped at the tears pouring from him. 

Crying is for the feeble. Is that what you are, Eris? He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes so hard he saw bursts of light behind them. 

A flash of red in the distant woods caught his eye. Surely, they hadn’t been able to find him out here? He shot up as quickly as his injured ribs would allow and raced behind the tree, trying desperately to calm his breathing. The quietest notes of a song made their way to him as he peaked around the other side. 

In the clearing ahead was a girl, no older than he was. She crawled up on a decrepit stone wall that circled what looked like an ancient cemetery. The stones within were weathered well beyond translation, and the walls around it were crumbling. 

The first thing he noticed about the young girl was the bright shock of red hair that topped her head. It was tucked up loosely in a braided knot, tendrils falling loosely about her face, and it made her look as though she belonged there amongst the colorful autumn leaves. Her clothes were nice, tailored, likely the mark of a noble family, which begged the question of what she was doing all the way out here. He knew they were far enough from civilization that she would not have wandered here accidentally. 

Did she know of this spot? Was she running from something, too? 

Her humming filled the small clearing as he quietly ran forward, tree to tree, to get closer. She danced on feather-light feet along the crumbling wall, and now that he was closer, he could see her pale skin was dotted with freckles like constellations of russet stars. As he reached the closest tree to the clearing and looked around it, her humming turned to a quiet song. She sang so low it could have been a whisper, but her voice was lilting and melodic, the tune haunting. 

Through the groves of apple trees

A maiden fell upon her knees

To beg the Mother in skies above 

To send her visions of her true love 

‘I'll send you, girl, a knight so fair

With speckled skin and fire-kissed hair. 

But so deep a sadness lies within

Underneath his scarred skin’ 

But Mother, then, what will I do?

To entice him with a love so true? 

‘To crack the cold, and broken heart mend

First you must become a friend

How will I warm the cold around

His wounded heart so tightly bound?

‘You'll use your fire, warm and bright

And together walk into the light’

He was entranced by her. So much so that, when her toe caught an errant stone in the wall and she tripped, he shot forward almost as if to catch her. His eyes played tricks on him for his folly, as he watched a hole of flames erupt from the sky above, dispensing the girl through it to fall back down to the very wall he’d just watched her fall off of. 

He’d foolishly shot out from the protection of the trees when she fell, and that’s where she saw him now, hand still outstretched in an attempt to stop her, catch her, somehow. He saw her eyes, the most beautifully stunning hazel, register his presence and widen, her mouth forming an “O” in shock. 

“Wait, please don’t go,” He blurted, arm stretched towards her in a pleading arc, surprising even himself. But she’d already slipped through another flaming portal, and this time she did not reappear.

[magixfairyix]

Trix Week Day 4 (Spell Gone Wrong)

°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°

I was really exited to share this one. Also because I missed yesterday's prompt (as I decided to draw against my better judgement something for the AU Cannon Divergent Prompt).

TW: Major character death(s), mild ideations of suicide

@bellatrixobsessed1 @trixweek

°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°

Darcy let out a shrill scream that tore open her throat, her sharp nails digging into her palms as she stared down at the two bodies in front of her. Not quite bodies. They were still alive, but comatose. 

She felt tears fall down her eyes in the constant current as her knees dug into the ground, sobs ripping open her chest. Usually, she hated the feeling of crying—of being vulnerable—but she didn’t care now. She was shaking and was trying to get air in at this point.

She did this.

Just like she cursed her planet when Liliss gave her too much dark magic for her body to hold on its own; how all the people around her as a child fell down to the grass, eyes open and breathing but not moving as if they were dead.

She broke their minds.

“No no no no,” Darcy said hoarsely, choking on a sob as she put her fingers to Icy’s pulse point. She still had a pulse, she still had a pulse, she wasn’t dead, she wasn’t dead. In a hurry, she moved over to Stormy and did the same thing. “Please. Please no…”

Her voice sounded broken and pathetic to her. Hell, she was a witch, but these two witches were—are—her sisters, her friends, and her family. The one family she had promised that she wasn’t going to mess up again.

“Please…”

Darcy saw the stains of her tears on the dark floor of their dorm room, well, as much as she could through how blurry her eyes were through the newer tears that were constantly re-emerging in a painful cycle. She’d been having nightmares for the past week, and her two sisters woke her up in the middle of an exceptionally painful one.

Now they won't wake up…

Darcy got up with a glare and stepped towards the chest of drawers next to her bed, eyes full of fury and pain. Inside the top drawer, buried under clothes, was her Whisperian Crystal. She had to do this, and if it got rid of all her magic—she wasn’t sure—then it would make this even better.

She glanced at Icy and Stormy before letting out a shrill scream, throwing the crystal against the wall. Darcy didn’t want this; she didn’t want a connection to the Ancestors or anything that tied her to them. She wanted her sisters.

The artifact shattered like glass, violet shards falling against the ground with a clatter. Other witches in the next few dorms would be wondering what was going on, but not enough to come into the dorm of the three witches without permission.

First, it came like a hand cutting off her breathing.

Darcy let out a choked noise as her hand shot to her throat, trying to suck in air. Her knees hit the ground again and she tried to get rid of the panic at not knowing what was going on. That would make things worse, and she knew it.

Her lungs burned for oxygen.

Then, Darcy felt a familiar aura of dark magic.

She clenched her eyes shut, tears leaking out and falling down her cheeks.

“You will still get the Dragon Flame.”

She could feel that Liliss was behind her, or at the very least, the ghost of her. The three of them were still trapped in Obsidian, but due to their connection, it was easy enough—much to Darcy’s annoyance—for them to project both themselves and their spells if any orders had to be given out.

“No…” Darcy said weakly and shallowly.

Would Liliss kill her?

She could feel a presence in her mind, and even in her pained and breathless state, she could relatively pinpoint it. Somewhere in the amygdala, she was sure. But her heart was still beating, so Liliss must’ve cut off a certain part of it.

Only to her lungs.

Liliss’ flickering form stilled. “There is no choice.”

“But… my… sisters…”

“Can stay here as bodies,” Liliss said emotionlessly. “It was your mistake that—”

“Magic Winx!”

Darcy felt Liliss leave the room and she heaved in a painful breath, shaking as whatever mental manipulation the Ancestor used left her mind. She let out a pained noise as she collapsed over herself, palms pressing into the ground, sobs shaking her trembling body.

She heard three pairs of footsteps run into the room before stopping, and some mumbles between the three fairies that barely reached her ears. It was it her mind was clouded by the agony she felt, and the thought that her sisters would stay like this.

“Is….?”

“So do we still…?”

There was a silent pause among them.

“No. Let’s… go back to Alfea.”

“But they stole—”

“I’ll…” A sigh. “I’ll stay for a minute.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“Stella, it’s fine.”

Two of the people slowly walked out of the room, their footsteps trailing behind them. One of them didn’t leave, and that annoyed the witch. She would’ve preferred if the three attacked her to end this entire thing, or if all three of them left so that they couldn’t see how she was biting her lip to the point of drawing blood to bury the sob choking up her body.

Someone knelt down next to her hesitantly.

“Kill me…”

“... no.”

“You’re my balance, so kill me. Finish the job or whatever…”

“I’m not going to just—”

“So you’re weak, then?”

A pause.

“Just do it.”

More silence.

The person stood up.

“Please…”

Soft footsteps as she walked away.

Out of the dorm.

Darcy tasted tears and the blood from her lips; salty and metallic.

“...”

“... please.”

°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°

And YES I had to give my oc a little cameo. XD She's the one Darcy is talking to at the very end.

Lol yeah... Darcy went through it for this prompt.

[ser3nityst4r]

Tenth Evil

The mist flowed with the scent of magic, a tangible force that pressed heavily on everyone in the Heartslabyul dorm. Riddle Rosehearts, the usually stoic and unyielding dorm leader, was a whirlwind of fury, his face contorted in a mask of rage. His signature spell, 'Off with your head!', had failed, a truth that hit him like a brick.

Trey Clover, Riddle's childhood friend and vice dorm leader, had intervened, his magic a shield against Riddle's outburst. Trey, ever the calming presence, had used his signature spell, 'Paint the Roses,' to overwrite Riddle's destructive intent, protecting Grim, the mischievous cat-like creature, and the terrified Heartslabyul students.

“Ha! Trey's magic overwrote Riddle's!” Grim crowed, his small body swaying with barely contained glee. His laughter died abruptly in his throat as the realization dawned upon the Heartslabyul students. Their dorm leader, the one who held their loyalty and fear in equal measure, had actually intended to harm them. 

Riddle tried again and again and again continuously, “'What?” Riddle’s voice shattered the tense silence, his eyes blazing with an intensity that sent shivers down everyone’s spines. “Was my magic overwritten by yours? Does that mean your signature spell is stronger than mine?!”

Trey, ever cautious of Riddle's volatile state, chose his words carefully, “Of course it doesn’t, Riddle. Take a deep breath and listen to us.” His fingertips still glowed with a blush of green, ready to summon spells just in case Riddle attempts to harm someone again.

Riddle’s anger escalated, his voice cracking with a raw, frustrated despair. “Are YOU going to tell me that I’m wrong too? After all I’ve done to protect the rule of law?! Do you know how much I’ve suffered for this?! I… I refuse to believe this!” His magic pen glowed crimson red, same shade as the roses that were once surrounding the dorm.

The air grew heavy with a sense of impending doom. Yuu, the silent observer in the heart of this storm, felt a cold dread grip their heart. The situation was spiraling out of control, and they sensed a desperate need to intervene.

'Cease this nonsense immediately, Mr. Rosehearts!' Crowley, the Headmaster, thundered, his voice echoing through the halls. 'Any further attempt to use magic will leave your magestone completely tainted with blot!'

The threat of blot, a magical ailment that could corrupt a user's magical core, was usually enough to quell even the most rebellious student. But Riddle seemed to have crossed a line, his mind clouded by an unshakable conviction. His magic pen’s once radiating vermillion was now dimming, a sign that the crystal is almost filled with blot.

'But... I'm right! I'M the one who's right! There is NO! POSSIBLE! ALTERNATIVE!' Riddle’s voice rose in a crescendo, his eyes burning with a terrifying, almost fanatical zeal.

And with that, the unspoken tension finally burst into chaos.

Riddle's magic, fueled by an unyielding belief in his own righteousness, erupted in a torrent of uncontrollable power. The very air crackled with vibrant ruby energy, swirling around Riddle as he launched a series of spells, each one aimed at Trey, Grim, and the Heartslabyul students.

Trey, however, stood firm. His own magic, a tapestry of calming colors and soothing whispers, countered every attack, creating a protective barrier around them. Grim, his playful demeanor replaced with a panicked meow, clung to Yuu, his small body trembling and blue flames wavering.

The other students, their faces pale with fear, huddled together, their eyes wide with terror as they witnessed the terrifying display of raw magic being exchanged so quick that all their eyes could process was the mix of scarlet and verdant swirling around, aiming to overpower the other.

Crowley, his usually friendly countenance etched with worry, rushed forward, his voice booming with authority. “Riddle! You must cease this madness! Your actions are endangering everyone!”

But Riddle was lost in his own world, a world where his warped sense of justice was the only truth, where his own pain and suffering justified any means to maintain the “rule of law.” 

The Heartslabyul dorm, once a place of order and discipline, was now a battlefield, a testament to the destructive power of an unchecked belief and the fragility of friendship in the face of unwavering conviction. As the thrones grew and expanded, Yuu knew that this was only the beginning. A deep, unsettling truth had revealed itself, and they knew, with a sinking feeling, that the consequences would be far-reaching and profound. The game had changed, and the stakes were higher than anyone could have imagined. Splat Splat Splat

[myreia]

FEBHYURARY XXI: SEASON

In winter, an encounter.

He finds her. Or she finds him. Stumbling her way through the back alleys of the Brume, lugging a greatsword twice her size—Fray’s greatsword—on her back. He is furious with her then, this stranger who burst into his and Rielle’s lives unwanted and unasked, dragging the asinine politics of Ishgard—and the weight of the world—with her. She claims to be a mage, yet cannot spark a whiff of magic. Until her rage takes her. Until she gives herself to the Abyss. Then it comes surging out of her, setting her blade—that blade, cursed blade, holding so many memories—aflame with violet violence. The all-consuming depths of fury and wrath burning, burning, burning, and yet at its core, a gentle warmth. A tender flame. She loves as deeply as she has been hurt, and she is the last to recognize it. This time with her is short. Brief. A moment crystalized in the Coerthan snows. When it is over and she is gone, ascending to the heights of the Pillars with her Scions and her High Houses and whatever other political machinations she has gotten herself involved in, he knows he may never see her again. He wishes he would. For Rielle’s sake, of course.

In spring, a reunion.

It has not been that long. Her hair is longer now, growing out from the shorn cut she told him she gave herself. He does not ask about Ishgard. He does not ask about the Lord Commander, her apparent paramour. Her life has moved on, higher and higher, and the stories he hears of her feel distant from the person he knows her as. They take Rielle to Gridania, soaking in the spring sun and the loamy scent of new growth. In her company, Rielle is happier than he has ever seen her. He is thankful.

In summer, a journey.

It has been two years since he saw her last. She is different now—the fury and the rage diminished to weary numbness. The red streaks have returned to her hair, she is no longer dyeing it. Perhaps she no longer feels the need to hide, to meet the expectations set on her. She is more honest, more raw… He fears something has happened. Something she will not speak of. She puts on a brave face, but inside she is as broken as her shattered soul crystal. As they traverse the scorching russet landscape of Gyr Abania, he wonders how much of this is an escape for her. An escape from her duties, an escape from her role. The further they go, the more she opens up, telling him things in confidence she has not shared with any other. It is on an achingly normal day when the realization hits. A stop by the river, where they set their blades aside and strip down to their underthings to enjoy the cool, refreshing water. As he sits on the bank, pale skin burning in the hot sun, and she looks back at him with that gentle smile… Ah, shit.

In autumn, love.

It starts in an inn on the road to Coerthas. Rielle tucked away for an early night, the pair of them retiring to his room after one too many dark looks from the other patrons. Two dark knights in the darkest corner of the tavern were bound to attract attention. Perhaps drink is to blame for their actions, perhaps not—that first night is a blur of many things unsaid coming to fruition—regardless, the end result is the same. Love that blazes darker than the abyss in their hearts. It’s a poor decision on both their parts. This thing between them—the seed for it sown years ago in bloodstained snows, only to bloom now at the worst possible time—is precious and fragile and must needs be sheltered from the tempest of her life. She is torn in so many directions—Alliance, Scions, Garlemald, friends, allies, enemies, all devouring pieces of her until there is nothing left. He swears he will not place those demands on her. He has become the eye of the hurricane, the calm before the storm. It’s the least he can give her. This happiness is not forever. They know they must relinquish it when they reach their destination. For everything there is a season. And for every season—as certain as the falling leaves—there comes an end.

[misteria247]

It was almost like a dream, what he was experiencing. Or rather a nightmare that refused to leave him be. Fiddleford hadn't said a word since he and the group of rebels had made their big escape. Instead staring at his hands, now covered in bloodied burns, that would definitely scar.

He could barely feel the pain, too numb from the horrors he'd just witnessed.

He could hear Ford and Stan talking quietly. Their voices wavering as they tried to keep their turmoil from leaking out. Fiddleford couldn't make out the words, a buzzing loud in his head. Only replaying the scene that took the life out of him.

A bubble, fragile and precious consumed in cosmic blue flames. A laugh, wicked and cruel , rang out as he desperately tried to put them out. Flames and burning flesh be damned, not mattering when the bubble was reduced to ashes. Staining his palms and burns.

It was almost like he wasn't even in his body. Just a spectator forced to watch and afraid to interact with the world around him. Knowing that doing so would force him to face a truth he couldn't grasp. In a daze he followed the group making it back to the shack. The only protection they all had. He didn't bother saying a word, ignoring Mabel and Dipper as he stumbled on his room. Muffled voices of the older Pines ushering the children in another room to talk fading behind as he closed the door. Fidds leaned against the door, expression neutral and gaze thousands of miles away.

His foot moved slightly, knocking into something. Looking down, he saw the left behind welding mask of Pacifica on the ground. Suddenly, the room was cold, the blood in his veins ice as he noticed everything.

Tate's coffee cup, Paz's little jewelry making station, their book shelf with Tate and Pacifica's favorite books. The static noise in his head was shattered by a wail.

Mabel's voice, full of grief and anguish, filled the air. Broken sobbing and screaming. Dipper's voice filled with denial and rage, demanding and begging for it to be a joke. It was this that made the world crystal clear.

Tate and Pacifica were gone.

His son and daughter were never coming back.

Something broke once it was clear, and Fiddleford snapped. With a primal, destroyed scream of rage and agony, the inventor went off the rails. Plates, books, inventions, anything within reach was tossed or thrown or broken. Completely trivial to the despair that consumed him.

His children, his babies, gone. Burned in blue hellish flames while a monster laughed.

And he had failed them.

He had failed his family. In the blink of an eye, the stars that once shined in his dark night skies had exploded in a firey, blazing death. Never to shine again. The old man didn't keep track of time, instead destroying the room before him. Anything to stop the endless grief and turmoil that drowned him.

That was how Ford had found him later. On the floor, surrounded by debris and broken items. Staring blankly ahead, eyes red and flowing with endless tears.

The face of a man broken.

[mist-touchedxiv]

He had to have died. Though, what sins he'd committed to have warranted this trip to the abyss was beyond the Wood-warder.

A cough and the acrid burn of smoke grated across his throat brought him to the present. No. Not dead. But that wasn't a comfort.

Loksen's vision swam back into focus as he half-heartedly shield his face from nightmare heat of an unnatural blue fire that engulfed the market. The cough turned into a retch as another smell reached him: cooked meat.

With surprising alacrity for how godsawful he felt he sat up as his stomach lurched and the horrible burn of smoke in his throat met bile and the terribly pleasant remnants of berries and the copper taste of blood.

Wiping his mouth of the vomit, he dragged himself to his feet, his body protesting quietly the whole way.

The lucky dead (bangaa, Hyur and worst of all, Viera) strewn about in pieces and undefineable masses around the former market, the desert afternoon made dark by an impenetrable black smoke of midnight absurdly lit with the cerulean flames of Garlean destruction.

He remembered the agony of checking every Viera and other for signs of life to no avail. But, he found his attention seemingly guided down a small alley strewn with debris and the detritus of the lives of several pe-

He pushed the thought down, trying to center himself as he stumbled down an impossibly labyrinthine alley. The miles of burning urban hellscape soon gave implausibly a wide shallow stream, surrounded by an infinite darkness. He could feel the cool water sloshing at his knees, but he didn't clock the incongruity. Something. SomeONE had caught his attention. Pristine, beautiful in the knee deep water.

Fruitlessly, he waded through the water trying to close the distance but the crystal clear water was like quicksand.

Soon, the figure was slowly engulfed in the cerulean flames of Rabanastre and his pain intensified as if his very skin was slowly being stripped off his body and he cried.

"Loki... Rakas..." came an achingly beautiful voice from the burning Viera woman.

A psyche shattering primal scream of sorrow tore him asunder with sanity shredding pain.

He awoke with a gasp, his face soaked with sweat and silent tears and sat up with a start. As the drowsiness gave way to consciousness the world around him came into focus slowly.

The smell of sea salt was soon joined by calming rumble of ocean waves and the call of seabirds. Instinctively, he touched the raised scar tissue on the back of neck, a reminder of time past.

Taking several deep breathes to calm himself, he allowed the calming seabreeze coming from the gently undulating curtains of a nearby open window. A sleepy feminine murmur and the surprisingly gently touch of a large slender hand reassuringly gripped his bare inner thigh.

"Loki... you okay..." Merylwyb inquired sleepily into her pillow.

[autumnwhistles]

Middle Of Nowhere (from Last Life: The Unofficial Musical) – Song + Full Lyric Breakdown

(full lyrics without commentary here)

Lyric Breakdown

Ludo ludete (x3)

As I've said before, this is (hopefully) the Latin imperative to two or more people of "play the game" – the Life worlds are basically death games played out by the Watchers, with rules from them etc (whatever is said in Grian's intros)

Oh, gone, the kingdom fallen on the mountain Bare, the sands, their cacti alone Flowers razed and castles left abandoned Now we stage another show! So build up the frozen north! A south that shall fall to flames – Renew and repeat the game! 

These are (obviously to some) references to 3rd Life – in this universe, as in Martyn's canon, this game did happen before the players arrived in Last Life. The Watchers enjoyed the emotional feast they had last time, so are now creating the new world of Last Life to continue harvesting the emotions they feed on. This is the first time it's referred to as a show.

Everything up to here is considered the prologue, since this is before Last Life's creation. The next two verses are going to be set after the Last Life game has already concluded, as it's commentary on it – it wasn't necessarily intentional, but you could say that by journeying through various instrumental themes that are going to be prevalent later on in the musical story of Last Life, it's us travelling through Last Life and eventually ending up on the other side.

There is an old, old tale to be told, Of green like the spruce, of crimson and gold. Of crystals and curses, lives swapped and sold, Stories we’ll now behold.

This is talking about Last Life, setting the stage for the story we're going to be told. As stated, this and the next verse are set somewhat after the events of Last Life, with the Watchers commenting on it and sharing it with us to partake in the experience of watching it. You could also say it's an 'old tale' because some versions of this have happened countless times before, so the Watchers pretty much know how things are going to turn out.

There is an old, old song to be sung/Look to the frozen north! Of victors that lost and victims that won/Look to the south in flames! Bonds forged in fire lie shattered and dull/Look to the fallen fort! All cast aside for one/Come on and play the game

Like the first verse, this is commentary on the first game. "Frozen north" mainly refers to Magical Mountain (there are mountains in the north, ie cold); "south in flames" is the Southlands (they literally burn it down); "fallen fort" is Lizzie's fairy fort. "Victors that lost and victims that won" is comparing actual victory to emotional victory, and basically saying how everyone loses in some way or other.

There is a land, in the middle of nowhere. It was too long ago there, Since last stories arose. So the tale is told, of the middle of nowhere: Watch and witness the show there, As our appetite grows!

Generally self-explanatory – "in the middle of nowhere" refers to how it's far away from any place that's known and how the world is isolated. The lines in bold are the first lines of a handful that directly reference Martyn's Last Life teaser, since this is directly from the Watchers' perspective ("Long have we waited/A hunger grows/Surpass them all/Take friends for foes/Live not for others/Invest in one/For if they fall/Ere will be done"). Future lines that reference this will also be in purple, and will mostly be in the choruses.

The last lines are also the segue into taking us back to the tale of Last Life in person. Everything after this (world creation, player arrival) will be in real-time.

There is an old, old world to be moulded, Flames to be doused and craters unfolded Forests to spread, dark shadows to sprawl-/ Look to the names! Herald the cue!  Red leaves to mark the colours of the first to fall/Rise, rise anew!

This is the Watchers creating the Last Life world – in this, they're reforming the world of 3rd Life, as every game is in the same repurposed world in the musical's canon. The flames and craters are being erased, so this is a fresh start. "Herald the cue" – the cue for the players to arrive.

There is a call, and flocking, they come, Like moths to a flame or clouds to the sun! Ships to a whirlpool yet struggling still- Look to the trees! Look to the hills!

This is referring to how powerless the players are to heed to call and come to the games, and how insignificant they are in controlling their own fate. "Clouds to the sun" was chosen because it fit, rhymed, and created a gloomy atmosphere – however, something I thought of afterwards was that since (due to Martyn's lore) Watcher Grian ("the sun") is canon, it can also refer to how when he joins the game, his vision/watcherness becomes clouded, as he's part of events and doesn't have access to all his powers.

Look to them, all the same/Look to the peaks, Helpless to play their game/Good for defence, style’s just pretence/Gather the sand, gather all the cane you can! And look there, could be a home, let's form a plan!/Ahhh Six, five, four, three, two, one!

Again, pretty self-explanatory. The players are settling in, and again they're unaware and not in control of how things are going to turn out. "Six, five, four, three, two, one" is counting the potential lives people can have, as the maximum is six.

Look to their land, in the middle of nowhere!/There is an old, old right to be fought for: lives to be lived, and not lived for naught – Through the wants and the woe there/To laugh, be alive, defend our pride, Herald what must be done/To cause chaos, to protect, to attack!

Again, players settling in while the Watchers watch (heh) on.

Best all in this land, in the middle of nowhere/Strike one! Strike two! You're done! You're through! Take your friends for your foes there/No time for mercy Till a champion has won/when the only thing that you can do is-

"Surpass them all/take friends for foes" from the poem – otherwise not much to say. The players are already delving into the ruthless nature of the games – they've been through this before (according to Martyn canon, players keep their memories, but don't keep the emotions associated with them as they've been fed on).

Four for the traitor, four for the pawn, Six for the swindler selling the dawn; Five for the wolf and three for the mole, Two for the witness outstepping his role.

This is the start of lives being distributed. Note that for these, some titles were able to be thought of more than others, as I did need to pay attention to rhymes and scanning. Most of these titles refer to what they were in 3rd Life.

@linnight22 already guessed all of these correctly, but here's a list:

"The traitor" – Bdubs (he infamously betrayed Impulse in 3rd Life for a clock)

"The pawn" – Martyn (he's basically a pawn to the Watchers)

"The swindler selling the dawn" – Scar ("selling the dawn" refers to how impossible and exaggerated the things he claims to sell are. Again though I've used sun imagery so if you want to somehow link that to Grian, go ahead)

"The wolf" – Joel (he's frequently associated with wolf imagery and it fits personality-wise)

"The mole" – Impulse (mostly referring to him being a mole in Dogwarts in 3rd Life – and I'm still on the 3l!Impulse was never a traitor to the Crastle train – but also an animal pun. I do admit this one was one where I needed rhymes and syllables, so it unfortunately doesn't describe his personality very well.)

"The witness outstepping his role" – Grian, for obvious Watcher reasons

Four, the enigma and expert alike, Three, the beholder, avoiding the strike; Two for the martyr, six for the moon, Two for the fierce-hearted cynic, untombed!

"The enigma" – Etho (demeanour and how hard people find it to decipher and predict him)

"The expert" – Mumbo (partly because he's a redstone expert, mostly because it fits as a descriptor for how he comes off as pretty knowledgeable, and also sort of a reference to his fancy professor-like skin)

"The beholder avoiding the strike" – BigB (not a watcher reference this time, but referring to how in 3rd Life he was quite passive as opposed to throwing himself into the action. "Avoiding the strike" is partly a descriptor for that but fits more with Last Life!BigB, with him being too hesitant/fearful of killing someone with the Boogeyman curse until it was too late and he had to kill Cleo)

"The martyr" – Scott (most open/prone to sacrificing himself for someone/something else out of all the players, eg when he refuses to fulfil the Boogeyman curse this season. And additional unintentional symbolism: , and c!Scott (defying 'higher beings')

"The moon" – Pearl, for obvious reasons

"The fierce-hearted cynic, untombed" – Cleo, for obvious reasons

Three for the hero, four for the dame/There is an old tale, now soon to come, Six for the self-dubbed master of games/The stage has been set, the bell has been rung, let curtains soon rise, let lights dim as one! Two, for the king with no subjects to call/The audience trembles, anxious to know what joys and disasters they shall be shown in- Two, the canary, destined to fall.../-all, when the curtains fall...

"The hero" – Skizz (righteous, passionate – generally his atmosphere and the fact he is one of the more 'heroic' players, at least to me)

"The dame" – Lizzie (demeanour, the fact she's the Shadow Queen this season, and also the fact her username is LDShadowLady, "lady" usually referring to someone of a higher status)

"The self-dubbed master of games" – Tango (he loves creating games and bets to spice things up, see You Bet Your Life and Dare to Flare. Note that "self-dubbed" isn't shade on his abilities at all, just the fact that it's a title he tends to embrace/place on himself)

"The king with no subjects to call" – Ren, for obvious reasons (for people who haven't watched 3rd Life or consumed post-3rd Life Renchanting content, he declared himself the "Red King" there, and role-played as that for the rest of the season)

"The canary destined to fall" – Jimmy, for obvious reasons (for anyone not exposed to the canary imagery: he's always out first, there's lots of canary imagery especially on Tumblr around him due to canaries being used in coal mines to keep track of poisonous gases. If the canary died, there was gas and everyone else would be in danger, symbolising the beginning of the end of things)

And finally, more show/stage imagery from the lyrics being sung at the same time! "The bell has been rung" refers to the bells that are rung before performances (or at least I know they're rung in operas), functioning as the 10/5-minute call, etc – basically signalling that the performance is going to start very soon. And again, the Watchers see all this as a show for their entertainment. "The audience" here refers to both the Watchers and to us.

("when the curtains fall" doesn't mean the curtains fall at the start of the show, it's more what they will have experienced by the time the show has been completed)

Caught in this land, in the middle of nowhere. Will it still end in woe there? Will it all come undone?/Did you hear that sound? So many feelings so grand can arise from the middle of nowhere!/Did you hear that voice? But – let our stars lead the show there, Heeding: our will be done!

Again, Watchers being Watchers – they're speculating on how things will turn out (while knowing that yes, they most likely will) and sort of showing fake sympathy. "So many feelings so grand can arise" – again, they're doing this to feed on the emotions that arise from the players during the games.

"Our Will Be Done" is something the Watchers say to c!Martyn very frequently, it functions as their signature phrase – basically it's a sign to anyone who already knows about the lore that these are most definitely the Watchers singing.

"Did you hear that sound/Did you hear that voice" are sung by c!Martyn – as I've said, listener!Martyn is not canon, it's referring to the fact that the Watchers speak to him and are probably letting him hear this to mess with him.